


Some Like It Hot

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, First Time, Head Under the Skirt, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, Lipstick Marks, M/M, Marking, Scent Marking, Sex in a Car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Stiles wants is a night out with the “girls” but when Derek shows up, things go topsy-turvy very quickly, and he gets far more than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Like It Hot

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Teen Wolf (wish I did!). But I do like to play with them.
> 
> This was originally written as a gift for TW Holidays. I didn't participate in the exchange, but I did sign up to pinch hit. When I saw the prompt, it was tailor made for what I love to write, and I had such a blast with it.

“The proper answer is: Stiles, you look fucking gorgeous.”

Stiles waits, but Scott doesn’t say it. In fact, Scott just _stares_ at him and says absolutely nothing. Not one word. Stiles looks down quickly and pokes one boob. “Is something out of place?” he asks. “I’m all fluffed and tucked, I think.” One hand checks that and yes, he’s put back between his legs so nothing’s showing. Both hands come up to fluff his fake boobs, which sadly can’t give him _visible_ cleavage since they aren’t at all real, but they do look good under the dress. He saw his image in the mirror earlier, and he makes a gorgeous girl. The ash blonde wig makes the outfit, changing his usual buzz cut into a heady mass of pale curls.

“You look…” Scott’s voice trails off. “Why are you dressed like a girl, Stiles?”

“Drag night.” Stiles leans over to dig through the pillows on the sofa that have somehow been piled up in one corner. “Have you seen my clutch purse? I thought I tossed it here earlier.”

“Why do you have a clutch purse?” From the look on Scott’s face, he wants to ask what a clutch purse _is_ , but is somehow holding his tongue.

“Because it matches the dress.” Stiles thinks that’s obvious. The purse is from the thrift shop and it is brown beads and black lace, which matches the vintage 1950s dress he picked because it suited his lean frame. “And I need someplace to keep my phone. Shoving it in my cleavage would ruin the lines of the dress.”

“Cleavage.” Scott shakes his head. “Stiles, you don’t have cleavage.” He pauses, staring at the boobs that Stiles is rather proud of, and blinks. “Okay, you have cleavage right now. Why do you have cleavage?”

“Because the dress would look funny without it. Aha!” Stiles spots the clutch on the other end table, underneath a magazine. He grabs it and shoves his phone into it after making sure the phone is completely charged. Money follows after that, more than enough to get through the night, along with a little extra just in case. Stiles isn’t drinking—he’s 18, not 21, and with a sheriff for a father he wouldn’t dare break that law—but sometimes things come up that mean a guy needs extra cash. Speaking of… he opens the clutch and checks, and yes, there’s a condom. Just in case. Because really, you never do know.

“You’re going out dressed like a girl.” Scott seems stuck on this point, and he shakes his head. “Stiles, it isn’t Halloween.”

“I know. It’s drag night, and I’m meeting up with some of the guys from quilting club.” That’s not the name of the club, not really, but it’s the QUILTBAG club on campus (or the LGBTQ club, or the GSA or however you prefer to think of it) and Stiles had nicknamed it back at the beginning of their freshman year when he’d joined still thinking he was straight and just a good ally for guys like Danny.

He’s not straight. Well, _sometimes_ he’s straight, so he figures he’s really somewhere on the bisexual spectrum, but really, he’s had way more luck (and interest) with guys than girls. It doesn’t matter in the long run, and he came out to Scott ages ago, and now it’s just a periodic bewilderment for his best friend and roommate.

Admittedly, this _is_ the first time he’s worn women’s clothing (and he’s not telling Scott exactly how lacy some of those clothes are) so he can’t really blame Scott for the surprise. In fact, he thinks he’ll touch up the makeup in the car because he’s pretty sure that pulling out his cardinal red lipstick might send Scott over the edge.

Stiles grins. “Don’t wait up.” He has a good feeling that it’s going to be a late night.

#

The club is crowded and hot; by the time a few hours have passed, Stiles has lost track of the guys he met up with at the start of the night. Not everyone in the club is in drag, and those who are have managed to obtain various levels of fabulosity. As midnight draws close, Stiles is sitting in a back booth talking to someone who gave their name as Greta (Stiles stuck with Stiles; even with the long hair and a dress he didn’t feel right picking a new name).

Greta is one of those people who puts her hand on people. On Stiles’s forearm to emphasize a point, on his shoulder when they’re just sitting back in the booth (it’s one of those horseshoe booths and they’re both at the back of it so they can see everyone else). On his knee at one point, although Stiles moves that off because while Greta was fun to talk to, she’s not what Stiles is looking for.

What Stiles is looking for is complicated. He keeps thinking he’s found it, periodically throughout the school year so far, but here it is May and he’s still not getting anything regularly and for once that’s not his own fault. He’s made connections; he just hasn’t thought any of them are worth keeping.

“Move.”

Stiles moves without thinking, edging closer to Greta who is suddenly very, very far away.

“I’ll just get a drink,” Greta says, sliding from the booth.

“Don’t come back.”

Stiles knows that voice. He doesn’t even have to look at the person who has just squeezed in on his other side, making the bench somehow seem small and crowded. “Hello, Stiles,” he says. “That’s the way any polite person would begin a conversation but no, you just have to jump in and start ordering people around. Did it occur to you that I was having a conversation?”

He finally does turn to look and it strikes him that not only is Derek close, but he’s _close_. Sniffing levels of close, with his head leaning in towards Stiles as if he’s doing just that. Stiles blinks.

“Right. So. Werewolf business, I’m guessing? Do we need Scott for this?” Stiles starts to slide out of the booth in the only safe direction, but Derek stops him with a hand on his knee. Stiles goes absolutely still, because Derek’s _hand_ is on his _knee_ and in what world is this happening?

Oh right, the world in which Stiles is wearing a skirt and nylons and a lacy pair of underwear. And it occurs to him that maybe Derek hasn’t actually recognized him.

“You do know who I am, right?” he asks.

Derek snorts. “That perfume reeks, but you still smell like Stiles.”

“A whole sentence, I’m impressed! Keep it up and we could have an actual conversation.” Stiles is running off at the mouth because he honestly doesn’t know quite what to say. The bad part about that is that it means that anything in his mind is likely to slip out at inopportune moments. Like now. “I didn’t think this would be your sort of club.  I mean one with humans. _Gay_ humans. The kind of guys who like to y’know, be with other guys, in a sexual sort of way.” He looks down. “Present appearance being an exception of a sort. I don’t actually think I’m a woman.”

“I know.” Derek’s voice is low.

“I mean, I’m just cross-dressing like one. It’s called—”

“Drag, I know.” Derek’s smile is full of teeth, sharp and feral and it curls around Stiles’s heart and squeezes roughly. “You look good.”

“The phrase is: Stiles, you look fucking gorgeous.”

There is a pause, stretching out for several heartbeats that Stiles can _hear_ and _feel_ thudding in his chest. Derek is right there, close enough that if he gets much closer Stiles will feel the rub of that scruffy not quite a beard against his cheek. That smile widens, and it doesn’t have any more humor in it than it did before.

“Stiles, you look fucking gorgeous,” Derek says, and he sits back, stretching his legs out, one of them somehow falling over Stiles’s leg under the table, hooking slightly and trapping him there.

“Hah.” Stiles laughs weakly. “You made a joke. I didn’t even know you were capable of it. Now do you want to tell me what wolfy business we’ve got going on and I’ll get Scott and we’ll go meet him and get it taken care of? You’re interrupting my night out.”

“We don’t need Scott.” Derek’s arm falls across the back of the bench. Stiles looks at him, startled. “I’m here to keep you from being an idiot.”

“Impossible, that’s my natural state. It’s part of the whole not thinking before I leap thing. Or the not stopping moving once I’ve started thing. Or the part where I never shut up.”

Derek reaches over, one finger pressed against Stiles’s lips, which stops him completely. “Shut up,” Derek orders quietly.

And Stiles does.

For a moment, maybe two.

“Look, it’s good to see you here and all, even if it’s a little weird to see you _here_ and I keep thinking there _has_ to be some sort of big bad and ugly waiting around the corner. But you’re cramping my style.” Stiles laughs because yes, that’s almost a pun on his own name. “I had a goal to go home with one of these guys tonight. And your sourwolf glower isn’t going to help me score. In fact, you make a terrible wingman. I wouldn’t be surprised if Isaac or Boyd has told you that already. You are still hanging around with Isaac and Boyd, right?” It has been months since Stiles has been home, months since he’s seen the pack. School has been peaceful. Different.

Derekless.

His gaze drops to the collar of Derek’s jacket and the edge of his shirt, where he can see skin and hair (which he is so tempted to call fur but he’s not in the mood to have his head bitten off right now, thanks). His life has definitely been Derekless, and he’s beginning to think that maybe that was a bad thing. Because Derek at least makes good scenery, even if his lip is lifting a bit in a snarl.

“Don’t growl at me,” Stiles pushes at Derek lightly. Teasingly. “You’re the one looking like you’re not having fun.”

“We’re leaving.”

“What?” Stiles can’t help but follow Derek; the wolf has his arm in a tight grip, pulling him along. “I thought you said there wasn’t an emergency.”

Then they’re standing, and Derek has both hands around Stiles’s upper arms. His very bare, thanks to the dress, upper arms. Derek pulls Stiles closer, and Stiles’s eyes go wide. “You aren’t going to—”

He is interrupted by a growl just before Derek’s mouth claims his. It isn’t a _shut up, Stiles_ little peck, either, but a full on, tongue diving deep sort of kiss that (almost) whisks Stiles’s words away. There are catcalls and yells for them to get a room but honestly, Stiles doesn’t care. His hands come up, clinging to Derek’s jacket, holding on for dear life because his knees might buckle (they aren’t, but it sounds good in his head).The taste is overwhelming. The low growl seems to invite rebuttal, and Stiles can’t resist.

He pushes back, hands twisting tighter until Derek takes a step backwards and this time it is Stiles who pushes his tongue in, Stiles who controls the kiss. Stiles who tastes Derek rather than the other way around. It feels incredible, and when he breaks it, Stiles rubs his cheek along Derek’s, feeling the burn of his scruff and knowing it will leave his skin red.

“We’re leaving,” Derek repeats, and this time Stiles doesn’t see a point in arguing.

The night’s gone cool, the way spring nights do, and Stiles shivers, wishing he’d brought a jacket. He barely has time to think it before Derek’s putting his over Stiles’s shoulders, surrounding him in the scent of leather and what Stiles thinks must be wolf. His nose isn’t that sensitive. In fact, he’s sure any of the pack could tell him all the small details that go into what he thinks of as Derek-scent, but he doesn’t really need to know it. He just likes to smell it, and it occurs to him that _that_ is exactly what’s wrong with the room he shares with Scott in the freshman dorms. Derek Hale hasn’t been sneaking into his room at night, and his things don’t smell like Derek. Like sourwolf.

It’s a revelation, and the only thing that manages to come out of his mouth is, “You stink. And I miss it.”

Stiles stumbles on his heels—he’s not used to walking in them; maybe he should have practiced before tonight—but Derek’s arm around his waist holds him up. Derek doesn’t respond to Stiles’s awkward blurt, but he does rub his cheek against Stiles’s throat, the burn making Stiles’s breath catch. It distracts him enough that he doesn’t notice anything until they stop in front of a car. It’s black, which is normal, but it’s not the Camaro. The Camaro had died during the battle with the Alphas and Derek had never replaced it, at least not as far as Stiles knew. But this one was something decent and solid and not exactly new although Stiles knows it has to be new to Derek.

“When did you get a car? You haven’t had a car since the Camaro! Why did you make me drive you everywhere instead of getting one before?” Not that Stiles had minded but still, Derek and a new car is a big deal after just how resistant he’d been every time Stiles had suggested it before.

“Had to get one. How else was I going to get here without it?” Derek looks at Stiles and Stiles just blinks in return.

“Get here? Like, tonight?”

“Every weekend.”

“You’ve been here _every weekend_ and I didn’t know about this? What are you doing here? Holy crap, Derek, are you stalking me?” Because he is, Stiles is sure of it. He can imagine it easily enough, Derek lurking in the backs of clubs, standing outside his window. That sudden scent when Stiles opens the window late on a Friday night (maybe Saturday morning, just before dawn streaks the sky and Stiles finally sleeps) and he catches a whiff of leather and something that reminds him of home and eases his mind in ways that his meds can’t quite manage.

“That was you,” he says, and he doesn’t bother to clarify because Derek’s jaw sets and whenever and whatever it was, it was something and Stiles knows Derek feels caught.

He’s not altogether sure Derek actually _minds_.

“So you’ve been coming up here every weekend.” Stiles speaks slowly, trying to capture the words before they escape and form them into some semblance of coherence, because otherwise, God knows what he’ll actually say. Anything on his mind, really. Into brain, out of mouth, that’s the usual way of things, but he’s _trying_ here, oh God how he’s trying. “Why?”

Not that he expects an answer. Derek is a man of grunts, grumbles, growls, and very few actual useful words.

He’s a bit surprised when he gets one.

Derek turns Stiles, pushing him back against the car, pressing the length of his body against him as he claims a kiss. More tongue, less teeth, less fury this time, teasing and tasting until Stiles’s cock is getting hard inside the satin panties he’d picked out to go with the dress (anything else would have ruined the lines). Derek is solid against him, heavy and comforting and Stiles loves the way it feels like he somehow surrounds him. He tilts his head, letting Derek nuzzle his throat, feeling the rough burn of scruff and teeth scraping over sensitive skin. Stiles grips the back of Derek’s head, holding him there, nudging him down further.

This really isn’t the time or the place for it, but Stiles isn’t thinking with his head anymore. At least, not the one at the top of his body. All he can think is _don’t stop_ and maybe he says that out loud a few times for good measure. Just in case Derek doesn’t realize what he’s doing to him.

And Derek doesn’t stop. The neckline of the dress pushes down easily, baring a strapless bra that Stiles doesn’t really need except to hold the falsies that have given him some semblance of shape. Derek yanks the falsies out and tosses them away; Stiles doesn’t care because really, who needs them right now? What he needs is the satin that one hard nipple presses against, and the rest of his chest bared to open air and Derek’s rough tongue as it teases him.

Whatever the sound he makes is, Stiles is pretty sure it wasn’t English. Good words right now would be _oh Fuck, Derek, that’s amazing_ or _right there, right there, don’t stop licking that_ or _wait biting? Oh that’s incredible_ but what Stiles hears himself say sounds more like _guhhhh_ with a whimper or a moan thrown in for good measure.

Thankfully Derek doesn’t seem bothered by the lack of actual words, or by the fact that Stiles has grabbed his hand and pushed it down to his hip in an obvious instruction of _touch me now_ since the words don’t seem to be coming out of his mouth.

Derek pulls the skirt up achingly slowly, then shoves one hand inside of the nylons until his fingers curve around Stiles’s satin clad cock. Stiles’s hips buck, aching for more than Derek seems willing to give him. Touching is good. More would be brilliant. Without thinking, he grabs Derek’s head and shoves down, ignoring the warning growl as he pushes Derek to his knees.

Derek crouches rather than kneels, the skirt fallen down again to cover Stiles. Derek’s hands slide up slowly, disappearing under the fall of fabric, and Stiles feels rather than sees his nylons come down. Stiles kicks off his heels to let Derek take the nylons away.

When Derek slides his head _under_ the skirt, Stiles nearly loses it. He can’t _see_ anything, but he can feel the fingers roughly gripping his thighs, probably leaving bruises in their wake. He can feel the nose pressed against his crotch, the rough rub of a cheek against satin before it is tugged down beneath his balls, releasing his aching prick. He can feel the way Derek luxuriates in his scent, letting Stiles’s musk rub against his skin before he finally teases a droplet from the tip of that hard cock, tasting it. Swallowing the drop, then taking the cock into his mouth.

Derek Hale is sucking Stiles’s cock. Oh _fuck_. Stiles can’t hold onto Derek anymore, so he just leans back against the car, gripping one door handle, trying desperately to stay on his feet. He widens his stance, presses his hips forward, jerking with each motion, wanting more of that warm wet around him. It feels good. It feels really really _really_ good.

There’s only one thing that would feel better.

“I want to fuck you.” The words slip out before Stiles realizes how ill-considered they are. He’s talking to an alpha _werewolf_. He’s talking to a guy who could probably bite his nuts off before Stiles could even think about getting away. And that same guy has his cock in his mouth right now, doing some amazing thing where his tongue presses in, making the suction so tight as he almost lets Stiles slip out, then presses his tongue into the slit at the end.

Stiles whimpers. “No, really, I want to fuck you,” he insists. He manages to grab Derek’s head through the skirt, stopping him (really, he doesn’t want to stop, but if Derek keeps going then any sort of other activity that doesn’t involve Stiles’s mouth (those aren’t _bad_ activities, just not what he wants at the moment) is going to have to wait). 

Derek rolls back on his heels, coming to his feet in a fluid motion. Stiles’s gaze drops, and he can see the hard ridge in Derek’s jeans.

“And suck you,” Stiles adds. “Suck first, fuck after, get in the car.”

Derek leans in, hands planted against the car to either side of Stiles’s shoulders. His face is so close that they could be kissing if Derek weren’t growling. “What makes you think—”

“You’ve been stalking me.” Stiles manages to get his hands up to frame Derek’s face and hold him still while he kisses him, hard and hungry. “And you didn’t bite me when I said it. Either time. Get in the car.”

Derek yanks the door open and they tumble into the back seat. The leather jacket falls somewhere on the floor, but Stiles doesn’t care, any more than he cares about the fact that his dress has slipped down and left him bare to the waist. All he cares about is Derek sprawled there on the seat, and getting those jeans open.

Stiles slides to the floor, trying not to think about how cramped it is as he yanks down the fly. Boxers, of course, he remembers seeing them peeking above the waistband of his jeans when Derek was changing shirts in his room. “Mm, abs.” Stiles murmurs absent-mindedly, kissing the skin exposed when the t-shirt rides up. Derek growls, but Stiles ignores him, one hand pressed against the jeans-encased cock, his mouth moving over rock-hard muscles covered by soft musky skin.

“Stiles…” The word is a growl, and Stiles wants to laugh. Instead he yanks the zipper the rest of the way down, watching the blue cotton bulge out. He pushes the zipper wide, managing to get the waistband down enough to free Derek’s cock through the slit in his boxers. It smells like Derek, only moreso, that rough musk invading Stiles’s senses.

This time it is Stiles’s turn to absorb that scent, rubbing his cheek along Derek’s length. His tongue slides up the vein on the underside, teasing, swirling around the head but not taking him in.

“Fuck,” Derek growls, and Stiles does laugh, the sound coming again when Derek snarls and grips the ash blonde wig. It comes off and Derek tosses it somewhere.

His outfit is coming to pieces, and Stiles doesn’t care, not anymore. If he’d known it would have this effect on Derek, he would have done it years ago.

Stiles hooks his fingers in the waistband of the jeans and drags them down, waiting for Derek to lift his ass so Stiles can pull the jeans and boxers off. They are left wadded up in a corner and Derek’s ass is pressed against the leather seats, which only seems right to Stiles somehow. Leather and musk, that’s his sourwolf.

He takes Derek’s cock in his hand, wrapping it around and using the slick spit to stroke him. His mouth moves to Derek’s balls, tasting that deep musk as he swallows one, rolling it around in his mouth. It is Derek’s turn to be incoherent, grunting as he thrusts into the tight circle of Stiles’s fingers.

He is going to get him off this way. He is going to make Derek Hale tip over the edge and come apart for him.

“This is so fucking hot,” Stiles murmurs, his tongue finding the inside of Derek’s thigh. He spits on the fingers of his other hand, rubbing the slick saliva before pushing one finger into Derek’s tight hole. Derek’s hips buck, and Stiles backs off, circling the hole instead. Teasing him. He’s played with himself (okay, so maybe he’s never actually fucked a guy before, but he’s tested some theories on himself) and he knows that sometimes it’s better just to tease than to actually start fucking in earnest. Pain can be distracting.

So he teases with that finger, not quite fucking Derek with it, touching all the places that he knows are sensitive. He moves back up to catch the tip of Derek’s cock with his tongue, hand stroking over him, aiming for his mouth.

“Lipstick,” Derek mutters. “Oh fuck, Stiles…”

Stiles thinks he knows what that means, and he lowers his mouth, pressing cardinal red lips to the heated skin of Derek’s cock. He leaves stains as he sucks him and he watches Derek watch him, watches as those eyes roll back and he loses control, coming with a shout and filling Stiles’s mouth with bitter fluid.

It’s an acquired taste that Stiles has yet to acquire, but for Derek he’ll swallow it down. His hand keeps moving as  some escapes, spilling over Derek’s cock, getting him slick and sticky. Derek falls back against the seat with a groan.

It isn’t easy to maneuver in the car, but Stiles manages to wriggle out of the useless scrap of satin that is his underwear. It seemed like a great idea when he put it on earlier, perfect for keeping himself neatly tucked back out of the way, but obviously he hadn’t thought anything through. Like the fact that having a hard-on in soft satin leaves his cock bouncing and rubbing against that slick surface. Or that it soaks through so easily from his pre-come. Or that they rip when he tries to pull them off and are probably ruined.

That doesn’t matter, in the end. Derek matters. Derek, who is now lazily leaning back along the seat, stretched out in a car that smells of sex and leather and wolf and… “Why haven’t we been doing this for years?” Stiles needs to know this, because it seems so obvious now. So easy and right.

“Weren’t ready.” Derek pulls Stiles on top of him, pressing his slick cock up against Stiles, letting the skirt fall over them, hiding their pressed together cocks from view.

“I wasn’t ready? You weren’t ready?” Stiles isn’t sure which one of them Derek means, or maybe both, but really, does it matter right this second? He rotates his hips, rolling them to press forward, and he feels Derek’s hand beneath the skirt, holding their cocks together. Maybe he doesn’t need to fuck Derek. This feels pretty good all by itself.

Derek’s other hand cups Stiles’s head, yanking him down to kiss him with bruising need. That mouth moves from his lips, teeth doing more than grazing now. Stiles can feel the bite, can feel the suck and pressure, and knows that in the morning he will have bruises on his throat. Somehow that only turns him on more, and he wants to leave his own marks. He grips Derek’s shoulders with his fingernails biting into skin, leaving tiny red halfmoons that say _Stiles was here_ or maybe _Derek Hale belongs to Stiles Stilinsky_. He likes that last thought. Likes it a lot.

He wants to brand Derek, to make sure Derek doesn’t try to walk away from this after. Whatever started this, Stiles is going to finish it. He pulls back and hikes up his skirt, tucking it under his chin to keep it out of the way. He pushes Derek’s knees wide, and kneels under Derek’s ass, exposing him. His cock is slippery and hard, and he presses it against Derek’s tight, puckered hole. It’s like a fantasy coming true, except he hasn’t actually fantasized about it. Stiles thinks he hasn’t dared, not even when he put a… “Condom!”

Stiles freezes, staring down at his cock which isn’t exactly _inside_ yet, but well on its way and oh fucking hell, where is his clutch?

Derek grips his wrists, fingers biting tightly. “You don’t need it,” he growls.

“Safe sex,” Stiles blurts. “Don’t you know anything? I can’t fuck you without one. It’s in my clutch.”

Derek drags him down, mouth hot in a kiss. “You just swallowed,” he points out, voice low. “It’s a little late to be thinking about that now. Besides, werewolves resist disease.”

Stiles is gasping, his entire body begging him to finish what he was doing. “It’s safe then?” He has to ask this, has to be sure.

Another low growl. “It’s safe. Just fuck me.”

That’s an order Stiles doesn’t want to resist.

“Hot. Tight.” Stiles can’t keep the words from falling out as he pushes inside of Derek. He has to let the skirt fall so he can hold on, needing to cling as he does this. “Oh fuck. What is this? Derek. Fuck. I don’t even know.” He can’t get the right angle, can’t manage to get in deep enough, but this shallow thrust alone is enough to keep him close to the edge. His foot slides off the seat, tangling in something that was dropped, and his thrust pushes Derek into the door.

The wolf growls and Stiles is picked up, flipped over. He is lying on his back on the leather with his skirt around his waist, and Derek crouches over him. Derek growls, leaning down, inhaling Stiles’s scent, nose tickling at his throat, and Stiles groans. Derek shifts, and oh dear _God_ Stiles is so fucking deep inside of him he doesn’t know what to do.

“Mine,” Derek growls, teeth clamping down on a spot where shoulder meets throat, and Stiles’s hips buck. That spot… that’s connected to his cock, he’s fairly certain of it. One hand flails out, gripping the door handle, the other is buried in Derek’s hair, clinging tightly as Stiles awkwardly thrusts, motion jittery. There is no control left, no thought as Derek sucks at his skin and Stiles arches, pressing into him and letting go.

His cock slides out of Derek’s slippery ass, and Derek settles heavily onto him. Stiles grunts, not used to carrying such a weight, and pushes at him ineffectively; there is nowhere for either of them to go.

Stiles can feel pleasant aches and bruises, and knows that Derek is everywhere on his body. His fingerprints, his teeth, his mouth; Stiles is marked more than a catalog marked up for a Christmas wish list. And he loves it. His fingers ghost down Derek’s back, not quite sure what’s just happened, or if he’s allowed to touch. He can see lipstick on Derek’s skin, traces of red where Stiles’s mouth passed, and it makes him smile to know he’s managed to mark Derek in his own way.

“So what is this, anyway?” Stiles asks, musing. “You’ve been stalking me, we’ve got that established. And we have now officially fucked, which is impressive since before this our communication has mostly been through grunts and you slamming my head into the steering wheel. This is definitely an improvement, far more pleasurable on both sides I’m sure, although I suspect you enjoyed the steering wheel bit more than I did. But seriously. What the fuck is this, anyway?”

A low grunt, which Stiles interprets as Derek-speak for _not interested in saying_. He ignores it.

“You say I’m yours. So tell me what that means. Does it mean, we’re fucking tonight, then you’re going back to that burnt out shell and I’m staying here and—” Stiles can’t say any more because his mouth is full of Derek’s tongue, quick and furious, drowning him in need.

“You’re mine,” Derek growls as he breaks the kiss. His hands are on Stiles’s shoulders, holding him down. “Go out with your friends, but the only guy you’re with is _me_. My mark. My scent. _Mine_.”

“Fine, reverse that,” Stiles pushes back at him. “You’re mine. Not Erica’s. No Isaac sniffing after your ass. If we’re doing this _thing_ , then we’re doing it. You come back to the dorm. You make my bed stink like sourwolf so I can get through the week sleeping well enough to be rested for the weekend when you’re here again.” He pulls Derek down, feeling scruff against his cheek as he buries his face in Derek’s throat. Soft skin under his tongue and he sucks it in, sucking _hard_ until he’s sure he’s left a mark. _His_ mark. He smiles, and presses a kiss there, loving the snarl that matches with the way Derek arches into his touch.

For a moment, the only sound is heavy breathing and sated gasps.

“I have a cramp.” Stiles twitches, trying to push Derek off. “And you’re heavy.”

“You have a cramp.” Derek rolls his eyes sits back, looking down at Stiles. “Your dress is messed up.” He draws a finger along the neckline where it lies just below Stiles’s nipples. “You don’t do this in public anymore. Just for me. Unless I’m there and taking you out.”

“You just want my lipstick on your cock.” Stiles manages to wriggle free and tug the dress (sort of) back into place and smooth down the skirt. His ass is still buck naked on the leather seat, and Derek looks like he doesn’t care that he’s naked from the waist-down.

“I _like_ your lipstick on my cock.” Derek slides his thumb along Stiles’s lip, and Stiles can’t remember what he was saying.

“So you’re saying dressing in drag pushed you over the edge.” Or maybe it was flirting with Greta. Or maybe it’s just his killer legs. “I looked fucking hot in that dress.”

“You look hot out of it, too.”

Stiles can’t argue with that sentiment. He pulls Derek back down and they end up somehow lying with Derek (mostly) on the bottom and Stiles (mostly) on his side (and half off the seat), with the skirt of the dress halfway making both of them decent in case someone walks by. It’s a time for lazy kisses, and low growls, and wandering hands.

“Next time, let’s try this in a bed. I have another cramp,” Stiles muses.

“Fuck your cramp.” Derek kisses him, and after that, Stiles can’t really bring himself to care. Car, bed, dress, boxers, lipstick, whatever… this is what he’s spent the year looking for. The back seat of the car will do for now.


End file.
